


Pretty

by yoolee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas, ACOTAR
Genre: Elriel, F/M, Fluff, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 12:12:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14811162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoolee/pseuds/yoolee
Summary: Probably too short to be posting here, but, some quick fluff for my favorite stronger-than-they-seem ship.





	Pretty

He’s not watching. Not  _exactly_. It’s more that he  _notices_ , as he notices most things because it is his job to do so and so has become habit over the centuries. Once he notices, he’s curious enough to come closer, kneel beside her and ask, “What are you doing?”  
  
She smiles ( _how nice_ , he thinks with relief, to see her do so that easily, remembering what the lack of it did to his High Lady, and not lingering on what it meant for himself), bright as a sunbeam through a window of glass, and offers up her creation. Her voice is a pleasant lilt, the quiet of blooms gripping roots in frozen ground, unwilling to delay their unfurling to the light, “It’s pretty, don’t you think?”   
  
He blinks once, eyeing the circlet of flowers woven from storm-severed stems.   
  
There’s an obvious answer here. But because she asked, he considers before he gives it. She’s made something. Woven something new from dead and broken things instead of letting them be trampled into mud. He lets his fingers brush the battered petals, the skittering darkness that chases his touch making them glow in brilliant contrast. He answers honestly, “It is.”  
  
She doesn’t smile—she  _grins_ , quick and stunning, and slides the little flower crown over his hair.  
  
He freezes.   
  
And is later embarrassed to admit his  _first_  thought is that Cassian will laugh himself  _sick_ when he sees.  
  
His second thought is deciding he’ll just have to kick the other Illyrian’s ass for it.   
  
He bites back a sigh for that, knowing he’ll probably have to cheat to do so.   
  
“Thank you.” He murmurs, and means it.  
  
She stands from where she has been kneeling, brushing the mud from her knees and reaching easily for a scarred arm as he rises with her. “Thank  _you_.” She answers quietly. 

(And he notices, because it is his job, habit for him to notice, that she means it too.)


End file.
